The Saboteur
by commandocucumber
Summary: Novelisation- An Irishman with a score to settle joins the french resistance in nazi-occupied Paris. Contains vehicular theft, violence of all sorts, mild smut, and the very best kind of Nazi-bashing...
1. Dangerous Talk

The Saboteur

Prologue- Dangerous talk

Giselle knew the secret to a successful erotic dance: the hips. A pair of nice breasts earned a nice tip, but a flat stomach, a thin figure, a beautiful pink round bum, and the ability to make said bum flow and move like the ocean waves earned a whole lot more.

She had a beautiful body, something she was proud of. And as the floodlights above her head illuminated the stage, the whoops and hollers of the nazi soldiers told her it was appreciated. She stared at the painted backdrop of the Parisian night sky, with the myriad of buildings painted onto wooden boards. They were cleverly set a few inches ahead of the blue backdrop, so as to give the viewer the sensation of dimensionality. She stood for a moment, posed like Aphrodite rising from the seashell, her back turned so that she could savor the last few seconds of not having to smile at the cockroaches infesting her beloved city…

Her musical cue kicked in and she snapped around, a smile on her face, and pleased the nazi hordes. She kept her eyes up, admiring the heavy red and gold art deco music hall style of the building. Anything was more pleasing than the jackbooted invaders seated all around her. Madame Rousseau had hired her for her body, but Giselle's true gift was her voice. She flowed up to the microphone in time with the music, her slightest movements making the drunken krauts in the front row holler appreciatively. She reached the microphone and began to sing a slow, sensual, and melancholy song which resonated far deeper with her than it did with the drunken, hungry crowd:

_Hello my love_

_It's getting cold on this island_

_I'm sad alone_

_I'm so sad on my own_

_The truth is_

_We were much too young_

_Now I'm looking for you_

_Or anyone like you_

A solitary figure sitting at the corner bar was the only member of the audience not even remotely interested in the show. He was a large man with a strong, handsome face, and an athletic build which drew the eye of many of the women in the crowd, including Giselle's. He was dressed in a heavy, shabby green coat, cargo pants, and a gray faded flat cap. All in all, he looked to be a wholly unremarkable working man. A dock worker, perhaps, arrived from Le Havre, determined to spend his weekend getting sodden drunk.

Perhaps the only truly unique thing about him was the fire in his eyes, as he stared down at a singed picture depicting himself and another, taller man, patting each other on the back in a show of brotherly affection, with a beautiful, freshly painted racecar in the background.

The man took a sip from a glass of whiskey and propped the picture against the bottle, ignoring the noises all around him. A cigar smoldered in his right hand.

A voice with a heavy, thick French accent spoke quietly, and the man knew it was directed at him, "Is this seat taken?"

The man turned his head slightly, surveying the newcomer through the corner of his eye. His companion was a tall man, thin, with sallow cheeks and flowing brown hair.

"I'm not lookin' fer company." The drinker said, taking a drag on his cigar. His thick accent revealed his home country, Ireland.

His visitor slipped onto the barstool beside him, ignoring the dismissal. He said, "This is Paris, my friend. In this city, no one drinks alone."

The Irishman ignored him, and the Frenchman took the opportunity to pour himself a glass of whiskey, making the picture fall to the table, "So…what are we celebrating?"

"_We _aren't." the Irishman replied, glaring at him and snatching away the bottle, "But if you're keen to get yer teeth kicked in, I'll be happy to oblige."

"Hmm," The frenchman's eye fell on the picture, and it's burnt edges, "I'd have thought you were too busy kicking yourself, with good reason I'm sure."

"What's it to you?"

The Frenchman took a long drink and set his glass down, obviously preparing for a speech, "Do you think you are the only man in Paris hoping to drown a guilty conscience? This city is filled with men like us, we all have good reasons…" he glanced back at the Irishman and was disheartened to see that the man was ignoring him, favoring the glass of whiskey. He continued anyway, determined to see the thought through, "I have been watching you these past weeks, and I have seen that you have no love for the Nazis."

The Irishman froze in the act of pouring himself another drink, and the Frenchman knew he had hit his mark. Time to start digging. "The question is, how many people will die at the hands of these jack-booted killers while you sit there, cowering like a whipped dog?"

He smiled slightly as his companion thumped the bottle on the table angrily, his face showing guilt and the sort of quiet anger upon which a man could spend years brooding. He knew he had hit his mark, "Ahh, you are mad enough to break that bottle over my head, but you won't lift a finger to help these people, eh?"

"This isn't my country." The Irishman muttered through gritted teeth.

"Oh? Did you abandon your conscience at the border? Does the need for justice end at some line drawn on a map?"

"Aye, if it's a map of Ireland!" the Irishman declared, turning to look his companion full in the face, "You Frenchmen have unrealistic expectations."

"Open your eyes!" the Frenchman persisted, raising his voice slightly, "The War is all around us! You can't escape it! You can hide here, and leave the fighting to braver men, or you can walk out that door and do what _must_ be done! _The choice is yours_!"

"Keep it down!" the Irishman pleaded, "That sort of talk'll get us both a bullet in the back of the head."

The Frenchman leaned in close, put his mouth up to the Irishman's ear, "I intend to do more than talk!" he said quietly, rising from his seat. He circled around to the Irishman's other side, "There is a courtyard around the corner. Meet me there when you are ready to stop hiding." He walked away.

The Irishman hunched over the bar again, and continued to stare at the picture, his blood boiling. Then he very carefully rose from his seat, pocketed the picture, and headed for the door.


	2. Spark One Up

The Saboteur 2- Spark One Up

Sean Devlin stepped out into the cool Parisian night air. He paused for a moment, savoring the look and feel of the city, its ancient cobbled streets, rustic architecture, and the shadows created by the faint yellow light of the windows. The Belle De Nuit was situated upon a hilltop in northern Paris, in the Montmartre district. From the right angle, it had a fantastic view of the city, with the thousands of tiny lit windows giving shape to the darkness.

In the distance he could hear one of the kraut megaphones blasting news about a battle in northern Africa. He relit his cigar and took a puff, watching the passersby. People kept their heads down, eyes focused on the ground immediately in front of them, not wishing to attract any kind of attention, especially not for the brown uniformed Nazis patrolling the sidewalks. The bastards had a nasty habit of shooting anyone who gave them the wrong look.

Sean winced s the memories flowed back. The blood-curdling shrieks of agony…

He felt the fire in his blood rise; perhaps it was time the krauts were taught a lesson. Sean was a large man, just over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and strong arms. He pulled off his flat cap, running a hand through his dark brown hair, wiping the sweat away. Then he replaced the hat, adjusted it until it was comfortable, turned to his right and walked down the uneven sidewalk.

The Frenchman was waiting in a side alley, near a dark Corrino sports car. Sean took a moment to admire the design. A wide wheelbase and low center of gravity meant that it could corner at higher speeds without risk of tipping over. It had a reputation as a good, mid-range easy to handle car with a beautiful engine. It wasn't half bad looking, either. He frowned; it was a shame about the dents on this particular one, though. A good car was like a good woman; you had to take care of her. Keep her well fed, well groomed, and looking pretty.

"Ahh," the Frenchman waved him over, "I see you are a man who'd rather live on his feet than die on his knees."

Once again, the blood curdling scream echoed through Sean's skull. "I'd rather the krauts did the dyin'." He replied, crossing his arms. He still wasn't entirely comfortable about the Frenchman, but the Krauts owed him lives.

"Excellent!" the Frenchman smiled, "There is a German fuel depot down the street. 5,000 barrels of precious petrol guarded by a handful of half-drunk supply clerks."

"Sounds like one helluva fire hazard." Sean said.

"My thoughts exactly."

Sean glanced backwards as a Nazi patrol walked by the mouth of the alley. When he was sure they were out of range he said, "We'll need something to get the fireworks started."

"I know a place where we can get what we need, but first I must know…are you prepared to kill if necessary?"

For the second time, Sean heard the echoing screams, "The way I see it, these Nazi bastards bought their own tickets to hell. I'm just laying out the welcome mat."

The Frenchman pointed to the Corrino, "that's my car there."

"I'll drive." Sean said, opening the door. The keys were already in the ignition. He turned them and felt a rush of joy as the engine drummed to life. There was nothing quite like the sound of a good engine. His companion slipped into the side-seat, and they pulled out of the alleyway and onto one of the city's major arteries. Sean took it slow and careful. Parisian pedestrians were extremely bad about watching for cars, although being hit by one was probably fairly low on their list of life-threatening possibilities at the moment.

"Where are we headed?" He asked.

"I spotted a German supply cache nearby. I am sure they won't mind if we 'borrowed' a few things. Have you ever handled explosives before?"

"I handled a bombshell once," Sean joked, grinning, "Turned out she was married."

"This is serious!" his companion declared.

"Alright, keep yer knickers on. I know what I'm doing."

"I had a feeling you would."

Under the Frenchman's guidance, Sean pulled a sharp right turn and headed down a steep hill. Two Nazi patrols were making their way up, Sean resisted the urge to turn the wheel and run them over. It would be so _easy_…

"Merde!" the Frenchman swore in disgust, "look at this! Fucking Nazis everywhere, infesting by beautiful city like cockroaches!"

"They've certainly made themselves at home." Sean observed.

"It's time we showed them a different kind of hospitality." His companion snarled, continuing to point in the right direction. He signaled the Irishman to stop beside a darkened alleyway.

"The supply cache is down that alley." He said, pointing. As Sean watched, a German patrol exited the alley's mouth, pushing an old woman to the ground.

"Look at those spineless jackals!" the Frenchman spat angrily as the patrol began to kick her, "I can't stand it anymore!"

"Whoa," Sean cautioned, "Steady mate. Let's just get what we came for."

But the crazy bastard was already leaping from the car, shouting "Espece d'enfoire de merde!"

The Nazis hesitated, looking just as shocked at the Frenchman's suicidal charge as Sean was.

"Christ," Sean muttered to himself, leaping out of the car after him, "here we go..."

Thankfully, the Frenchman had closed the distance before any of the Germans had decided to use their weapons. Unfortunately, that also left him outnumbered three to one, although, Sean had to admit as he slammed one burly elbow into the nearest Nazi's head, the Frenchman's inner fire could carry him through quite a lot more than anyone would ever expect.

A second Nazi, judging the burly Irishman to be a bigger threat than the tall, skinny frog, turned to deal with him. The two of them squared off for a moment, each taking a different stance. Sean had made a living out of many jobs before the war. Unfortunately for the kraut, one the Irishman's passions had been boxing.

The man was fast, at least. He landed a light, weak blow which slid across Sean's jaw, barely bruising him. In response, the Irishman landed a triple combo, right left right, each one to the face, the last nearly dropping the man. As the unfortunate soldier stumbled backwards, his partner came up from behind and grabbed Sean around the shoulders, trying to hold him steady. Sean rammed his head backwards and felt the crunch as the man's nose broke, loosening his hold. It broke when the Irishman's elbow landed in the soft area beneath the man's ribs. Sean turned, brushing aside the man's arms with his right and hand landing a left hook on the man's cheek which had the kraut spitting up teeth. The big Irishman finished him off with a curb stomp, and then turned to deal with the other kraut, who had retaken the fighting stance. The German was swaying from side to side, and a huge welt had already closed one eye. Sean slapped away the man's weak, ill-aimed punches, grabbed his hair, and slammed the man's face into his knee, watching him crumple to the cobbles.

He looked around for the old lady, but she had long since vanished.

The Frenchman had already finished off his own opponent and was watching the Irishman work with an appraising look in his eye. Sean dragged the bodies into the darkness of the alleyway and turned to him angrily, "What the fuck was all that about?"

"Not now! Let's go." The Frenchman lead him further down the alleyway where it broke out into a courtyard which had been cut in half by a huge black barbed-wire fence.

"The crates are up there, but we need to be careful." His ally said, pointing past the imposing fence, "The supply cash is a restricted area."

"Oh Aye," Sean replied bitingly, "Was that you being careful back in the ally?"

"I lost my temper." The fiery Frenchman said apologetically, "It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't." Sean ordered, "I didn't leave a nice, warm bar just to get my head blown off."

"If we are spotted near the crates, the Germans will attempt to sound the alarm." The Frenchman told him. Sean turned; slightly irritated at the way his companion dismissed the warning, and examined the area. He pointed up to a high lookout perch which had been built onto the roof of a nearby building. Moonlight glinted off a helmet. "Then we'll have to get rid of that lookout first."

"Yes. Climb up there and throw that Nazi piece of shit from the roof while I move in on the ground." The Frenchman ordered, "Can you do that?"

Sean examined the side of the building with an expert eye and spotted a drain pipe. He grinned, the adrenaline still pumping through his system from the last fight, "It's a piece of piss."

"I do not know this phrase…" the tall man muttered reflectively.

"It means yes." Sean explained shortly.

The Frenchman nodded and set off towards the fence. Sean grabbed the pipe and clambered his way up. He'd done enough creeping around on rooftops over the course of his young life to know how to free-climb. He smiled, an incident in Monaco coming to mind; a beautiful car, a beautiful blonde and her sultry cold British accent.

He reached the top of the building; his palms blackened by the grime on the pipe, and crept across the roof, keeping silent. The sentry remained unaware of the Irishman, right up to the point where Sean's boot hit him in the small of the back, sending him flying off the edge of the three-story building to land with a crunch on the ground below. The other two shocked guards in the courtyard ran over to check on him, and the Frenchman fell upon them, fists wailing away. But these men were bigger than the last group, and once the skinny frog had lost the element of surprise, he found that he was suddenly on the wrong end of meaty German fists.

"Help me Irishman!" he cried, dodging a heavy blow, "We cannot allow them to sound the alarm!"

Sean found a handy ladder and slid down it, gripping it with his worn sleeves and the soles of his boots. He halted about five feet above the ground and launched himself straight into the fray, bearing one of the krauts to the ground, kneeing the man in the kidneys. He punched the man in the back of the head, dazing him, then turned the other around, grabbed him by the shirt, and began to pound at the man's face. Again and again his fist landed until the man was a broken, bleeding lump of flesh.

He kicked the downed kraut in the face to finish him off, then rubbed his bloody knuckles and made his way to the wooden crates sitting in the corner of the courtyard. Far off in the distance, on the south side of the river, he could hear the sound of Nazi alarms blaring. Apparently there was more than one group trying to start trouble that night…

"Let's see what kind of party favors these krauts brought." Sean said, lifting the wooden lid. He found several stics of dynamite and some contraband items including a beautiful, sturdy leather satchel. He hung it over his broad shoulders, astonished at how comfortable it was.

"Those explosives will do nicely." The Frenchman said as he watched the burly man stuff the dynamite into his new satchel, "Just remember to save at least one charge for the fuel depot. Let's get back to the car."

The two of them headed back out of the alleyway, past the Nazi bodies, and into the Frenchman's beaten Corrino. Sean felt a strange sense of exhilaration as he started the car's engine. The streets were calm; no sirens blaring, no Nazi bullets. Aside from the alarms going off south of the river, it seemed to be a picturesque night. They had fucked the krauts. They had fucked them, and gotten away with it!

"How are you feeling, Irishman?" his companion asked as the car began to trundle back towards the Belle de Nuit.

"I'm anxious to get the real show started!" Sean told him enthusiastically.

"Oh? Most men would have lost their nerve by now. Tell me, my friend, what were you doing in Ireland before you came to my country?"

"I was a mechanic." Sean said, "Not that it's any of your business."

"A mechanic, eh?" the Frenchman laughed, "Well, the resistance could use a good mechanic."

"I didn't know there was a French resistance in Paris."

"That's about to change," his companion declared, pointing Sean down a side-street, "After tonight, the Nazis will have a new enemy to fear. The Depot is just up ahead."

They continued in silence until they reached a large block of grassy land, fenced off with the same imposing black walls as in the courtyard. This area was much more heavily guarded, though. Sean eyed the mp40 machine guns warily as they approached. A German fuel truck was parked opposite the gate.

Sean pulled the Corrino over half a block up the street from the black entrance.

"We'll need a diversion to get past that gate." Sean said, watching the Nazis closely.

"The Nazis have orders to investigate gunshots, or explosions." The Frenchman said, examining the rooftops, "We can use that to our advantage." He nodded at the fuel truck, "10 pounds of high explosives on that truck should get their attention."

"Aye," Sean grinned, "That'll do."

His ally pointed up to the top of a five-story tall building across the street from the fuel depot, "Start by climbing that. Once you're on the roof, keep your head down and wait until the truck explodes."

Sean frowned. He had great confidence in his own climbing skills, but less confidence in the French brickwork of the old buildings. It was a nonsensical thing to worry about, given what he'd gotten himself into, but it would be a shame for their little rebellion to fall, so to speak, at the first fence.

The Frenchman had no such qualms, "Once you are on the roof, keep your head down and wait until the truck explodes, then use that telephone wire to cross the street into the fuel depot.

Sean squinted and then shook his head as he spotted the tiny thread of black cord, "That thing?" he said doubtfully.

"It will hold your weight." The Frenchman assured him.

"Crazy bastard."

"While the soldiers are distracted, move in quickly and place a charge on the largest storage tank."

Sean sighed, "I'll meet you by the gate when it's done."

"Watch your ass, Irishman!" the Frenchman said playfully, exiting the car. Sean circled, looking for another drain pipe. He found one just around the corner, and shimmied up it, listening to the old bolts creak and groan under his weight.

He reached the top and made his way up to the telephone wire. It was much thicker up close, and he felt his confidence boosted when he saw that the wire had been strung up with giant, brand new heavy bolts. He peered over the edge and backed away hurriedly; it was a long way down. Everything looked so much smaller…

"Fuckin' hell."

The Irishman steeled himself and gazed across the street at the depot. He looked at the wire, then down at his own hands, then back up at the wire, "No fuckin' way." He unslung the satchel and hung the shoulder strap over the black wire. He hung from it and bounced a little, carefully testing his weight. It seemed sturdy enough. On the ground below, the fuel tanker went up in flames. That was his cue. Sean swore and leapt off the side of the building. He could feel the frictional heat and the rushing air as the leather strap carried him down the heavy black cord, over some fuel tanks, and into the heart of the depot. He landed painfully on the roof of a wooden shack, and hopped to the ground, waiting until all the soldiers had crossed the depot.

He crept up beside one of the German jeeps to get a closer look. When he was sure the last one's attentions were occupied, he legged it across the gap of open ground, expecting a gunshot in the back at any moment. He reached a large central cluster of fuel tanks and pulled out a stick of dynamite. He planted it gently on top of a valve, used his cigarette lighter to start the fuse, then ran back the way he'd come. He dove behind a large crate, hearing an alarmed shout, but it was far too late for the Nazi guards. The entire fuel station blossomed into a giant, beautiful explosion, the fireball rising ten stories into the night sky, lighting up the northern end of the city. Sean felt the buttons on his shirt press into his body, bruising him as the air pressure assault his ear drums. He lay there, momentarily stunned by the explosion, a faint high-pitched buzzing in his ears. He got to his feet, using the crates for support, and surveyed the damage. The cluster of fuel tanks was gone, as were the Nazi vehicles. Debris and blackened twisted metal lay everywhere. Even the giant black fences had been reduced to rubble. His mouth hanging open, Sean stumbled out into the street. He stuck a finger in his ear and wriggled it around, trying to clear it. The Corrino Sport pulled up and he slumped into the passenger seat, next to the grinning Frenchman.

"Hah!" the man dais, slapping him jovially on the shoulder as they pulled away, "We did it! Tonight we changed the course of history, my friend!"

"All we did is blow up a petrol station." Sean replied, shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs, "Thuogh I must admit it, that fireball did make for a pretty picture."

"You are wrong, Irishman!" the tall man responded fervently, "Something has changed. It is in the air, can you not feel it?"

"Well…" Sean muttered, wondering about the man's sanity, "Now that you mention it…"

"It is just the beginning!" the Frenchman declared, pulling a left turn as they made their way back to the Belle, "We will push back the darkness, free this city from fear! House by house, and street by street."

The Corrino pulled up outside the Belle and Sean basked in the warm, welcoming glow of the Cabaret theatre.

"Get some rest my friend." The Frenchman declared, "We will have much to do in the days ahead."

"Oh Aye…if by that you mean a sweet brunette and a glass of whiskey." Sean said.

"Enjoy your reward Irishman," the tall man said, laughing, "You've earned it. I owe you a drink."

Sean stepped out of the car, feeling elated. He stumbled through the door, ignoring the coat check girl, and made his way through the ladies' dressing rooms into his own bed, hidden behind a larger-than-life portrait of Madame Rousseau. His own room was sparsely decorated, the table being taken up by empty bottles, and lit by candlelight.

Sean pulled off his jacket and shirt, lit a cigar, and settled down onto his thin bed, letting his aching muscles relax. He picked up the singed picture from his bedside table and held it up to the light, examining the face of his lost friend.

"I'll tell you Jules," he said, "I'm just getting started."


	3. Better Days

The Saboteur 3- Better Days

**3 Months Earlier**

Sunbeams shone through the narrow slits in the roof of the car garage. A few white doves cooed, hopping between the ancient bulks of timber which held the roof up. On the floor below, a sleek blue and silver roadster had been hiked up on blocks, allowing space for the man working below it.

He could hear Ella Fitzgerald crooning over the radio:

_I'm somebody nobody loves, Oh me oh my my my…_

_I'm somebody nobody loves, I wonder why why why…_

Sean grunted, twisting the wrench, trying to get the correct amount of torque as he stared into the inner workings of the car above his head. To most people, the engine above would look like a confusing and jumbled trashy mass of tubes and wires, but when Sean Devlin looked at it, he saw the most beautifully designed engine ever to exist. The _Aurora Morini,_ the fastest racecar ever built. As he strained, Sean knew that he was being given a great honor; he was one of the few people ever to see anything more than the blue beauty's taillights.

A foot kicked him, causing him to drop his wrench and bang his head on the light metal frame.

"Bollocks!" Sean said, grabbing the frame and pushing himself out from under the car. He stared into the angry eyes of Jules Rousseau, his closest friend. The young Frenchman had a long equine nose, and black hair. He was wearing a gray coat with epaulettes. His sleeves were rolled up in the fashion of someone used to heavy labor. The Frenchman leaned down, "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"What does it bloody look like?" Sean asked, nonplussed.

Jules offered him a hand, "The Aurora is my girl now, Sean." He reprimanded, pulling Sean to his feet, "I will not have another man peeking up her skirt!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake Jules." Sean growled, exasperated.

Jules poked him in the chest, "You're a driver now, you want respect on the circuit?" he tapped himself on the head, "You've got to stop thinking like a mechanic!"

"Right," Sean laughed as the Frenchman turned away, equally exasperated, "And put on airs like some posh wanker with a silver spoon up my arse? No thanks, Brother." he patted Jules on the shoulder in a show of brotherly affection. Despite his annoyance, the Frenchman returned the favor. At that moment, they were both blinded by a camera flash.

When Sean's eyes cleared, he beheld the culprit, a pretty young French woman, holding a camera. She had the same nose as Jules, and the same dark hair, tied back in a bun. She smiled at her brother and gave Sean a cold nod.

"Veronique!" Jules exclaimed, happily embracing his sister. He kissed her on each cheek, then backed away a small amount. Sean, meanwhile had respectfully removed his hat, and was trying to act the part of an interested gentleman instead of the dirty, grease-covered Irish brawler he appeared to be.

"Mornin' beautiful." He said, showing her his best smile.

Veronique ignored the feeble attempt at flirting, though she was clearly cheerful when she said: "I'm coming along for the race. Vittore asked me to take pictures!"

"Couldn't it wait until I'd made myself a little more decent?" Sean asked, once again trying to be the cheeky, cheerful gentleman. Jules was watching their exchange with a half-smile on his face.

"I don't believe in miracles." Veronique told him.

"Ooh," Jules grinned, "My sister's got all the charm."

"And the brains." Veronique added.

A deep, fatherly voice interrupted the banter, and all three of them turned to see a fatherly Italian man with a wonderfully marbled beard. Sean smiled at him. Vittore Morini was a famous name in the racing industry. An Italian, who had made his fortune designing cars which were faster, sturdier, and far better to handle than any other manufacturer in the market. To Sean, he meant a lot more. He was a father figure who, seeing potential where no one else had bothered to look, had picked up a scared, lost, young Irish boy and turned him into his small factory's best mechanic. He had entrusted Sean with all the secrets of his craft, and just recently, had trusted Sean to be the driver behind the wheel of a Morini racer. To Sean Devlin, there was no higher honor. The man was a father figure. A guardian angel. A constant fountain of wit and wisdom.

The Italian said, "Okay, that's enough screwing around. We've got a race to win!" he addressed Sean and Jules first, "You boys have work to do. Both of you."

"Say the word, boss!" Sean told him respectfully.

"Let's get our girl on the trailer." Vittore ordered, "I want to be across the border by sundown."

The four of them set to work preparing the Aurora for the long journey across the border into Germany for the Saarbrucken Grand Prix.

* * *

"Ready to move out?" The Italian asked as Sean and Jules finished tightening the ropes which secured the Aurora to the back of the truck.

"The truck is loaded and ready to roll." Jules reported obediently.

"And the Aurora?" Vittore asked, worried for his brainchild.

Sean glanced around to make sure Veronique wasn't watching, then said, "Trused up tighter'n a nun's arse."

"Good," Vittore hid a smile, "Veronique and I will ride ahead. You two take the truck and head east to the German border. From there it's a straight shot to Saarbrucken. I've marked the location on your map."

He turned on his heel and marched up to his own car, a bright blue Dugati. Sean felt a pang of jealousy as he stared at the vehicle, it's surface sparkling clean in the afternoon sun. He didn't begrudge Vittore for owning the car; the Italian had worked long and hard for his money, and fully deserved to enjoy the rewards.

"C'mon, Sean! Get in!" Jules urged, having already taken a seat in the slow, bumbling trolley which just barely passed for a truck. Sean hated driving it, but if Vittore asked, he would have jumped off a bridge. He would have asked why first, of course, but the old man meant far too much to him.

The truck wheeled slowly out of the Morini family courtyard. He and Jules rode in comfortable silence for a long while, enjoying the sunlight and the obvious beauty of the French countryside.

Finally, Jules spoke, "This is it, my friend." He said as they crossed a wooden bridge, "After tomorrow, you'll be a famous driver, and I will be right there beside you reaping the rewards of your success."

"Which rewards did you have in mind, exactly?" Sean asked, thinking of the money.

"The women!" Jules exclaimed happily. Sean couldn't help but grin. His friend continued, "These German girls are crazy for racers. We'll have a dozen blonde beauties feeding us grapes, eh?" he gave Sean a friendly punch on the shoulder. And then added, somewhat sourly, "Assuming you don't fuck it up of course."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, Jules," the Irishman said as they squeezed past a junky car on the narrow road, "but there's more ridin' on this race than you getting' yer hole knocked off: Vittore took a big gamble, making me his wheelman."

"You are not going to let him down, Sean." Jules reassured him, patting the big Irishman on the back.

"I hope not." Sean muttered as they passed over a hill, exposing the rolling pastures and babbling brooks of the Parisian countryside. Set against the pale blue sky, the view was spectacular.

"Vittore's got bigger problems to worry about these days."

"Like what?"

Jules stared at him, stunned, "Like the fact that a war could break out at any minute? Huh? Don't you read the papers?"

"Just the sports section." Sean joked.

Jules was not amused, "These Nazi bastards are itching for a fight. If they get their wish, we're all going to be out of a job."

The truck passed several signs informing the two friends that they were approaching the German border. As they rounded a corner, Sean spotted the dam. Lodged in a valley between two tall mountains, it was enormous. Gigantic gushing blasts of white water caused an eternal rainbow to arch high over the thin wooden bridge connecting France to the motherland.

"There's the border up ahead." Jules told him sourly, "Drive slow and try not to look suspicious."

"Right," Sean joked, as his friend began rooting through the glove compartment for their pass, "I should'a worn my lederhosen." Despite his light attitude, Sean had spotted the many armed guards surrounding the high metal wall. He began to slow as he crossed the bridge, allowing the Germans ample time to notice him and move out of the way.

"I'm serious!" Jules snapped, "These assholes are looking for any excuse to start shooting."

Sean pulled up and parked the truck, taking the proffered pass from Jules and holding it up for a grim-faced officer to see. In the rearview mirror, Sean spotted the other soldiers surrounding the truck, mp40 machine guns ready. It made him nervous and angry to see them examining the Aurora so closely, like they had the right to snoop around Vittore's greatest achievement.

He was even more annoyed by the Nazi officer's refusal to give the pass back despite the ample time he'd had to see it. It was an intimidation tactic, and Sean recognized it as such. The officer was reminding them that he was the only thing standing between them and a firing squad.

At last, his point made, the officer decided that the pass was genuine, and waved them through. The giant ominous gates opened slowly allowing them passage into Germany. The sun was just touching the tops of the trees as they drove on through the mountain pass.

"About fuckin' time." Sean growled. Jules tensed, fearing the Nazis had heard his friend's outburst.

"Not much farther now," Sean said. He took a theatrical sniff, "I can smell the petrol fumes from here."

"You just keep your eyes on the track, and your pedal to the floor, my friend." Jules told him, breathing a sigh of relief, "And let me worry about the rest."

Sean chuckled, "Are you volunteering to be my manager?"

"What's so funny?" Jules responded as they reached Saarbrucken Proper, "I didn't have to be a mechanic, you know? I could have done anything. The teacher used to say to me: Jules…all of these kids are stupid. Especially your cousin Javier. But not you, Jules. You are too clever for your own good."

"I thought Veronique had the brains in the family," Sean said slyly.

"She likes to think so." Jules dismissed.

"What's her beef with me anyway?" Sean inquired; recall the girl's cold demeanor, "I can't put a foot right when she's around."

"It's not just you." Jules explained, "Veronique is tough on men in general."

"Why's that?" Sean drove slowly, trying to maneuver the large truck through the narrow German streets.

"One of these days I'll take you to my family's Cabaret in Paris, eh? Veronique was raised in Le Belle de Nuit." He laughed, "Let's just say it wasn't your typical upbringing."

"Sounds like fun." Sean muttered.

"My friend, you have no idea!" Jules exclaimed fervently.

A jolly man waved them over and the y pulled up to the side of the road. The man walked over to the passenger side door and stood on tiptoe to talk to Jules, who shot Sean a grimace, then transformed his features into an expression of pleased surprise, "Cousin Javier, where's the boss?"

"Vittore is waiting for you at the bar down the street." Javier said, pointing. Sean looked in the rear-view mirror and say the bright red bar sign.

"Leave the truck with us." The Frenchman added.

"I'll see you at the bar." Jules said, getting out to join his cousin. Sean hopped out his own side and walked over to the bar, taking a moment to lament the fact that practically every stranger he saw wore the red, swastika emblazoned armband.


	4. Old Friends, New Enemies

Saboteur 4- Old Friends, New Enemies

Jules and Sean entered the bar. It was a friendly enough place. Well lit. The patrons seemed fairly calm. Several men and young women watched from and upper mezzanine as the two of them entered. The two stood out. The dark-haired Frenchman in the gray coat, and his brown-haired Irish friend, both of them stood over six feet tall, were broad-shouldered and carried themselves with workman-like confidence. They towered over most of the crowd, and easily spotted Vittore and Veronique, who had picked a quiet spot at the bar. Drinks were already laid out for their arrival, and as Sean picked his up, he examined the area behind the bar. It had been heavily decorated with racing trophies and memorabilia.

Jules hurried forward and greeted his sister with a kiss on both cheeks, leaving Sean to greet the old Italian himself.

"I'm glad you finally decided to join us." The man said, shaking Sean warmly by the hand.

"We took the scenic route." Jules japed, raising his glass in salute.

Vittore pulled Sean aside slightly, "You run into any trouble?"

"Just the usual groupies lookin' fer autographs."

To his dismay, Veronique heard his comment and raised her own mug in mock salute. Sean returned it with equal distaste.

Vittore nodded, satisfied. He walked back to the bar and picked up his own mug. "A toast," he declared, "to Team Morini, and our Lady Aurora!"

The four of them raised their glasses in unison.

"To Senor Morini," Sean continued, laying his hand respectfully on the older man's shoulder, "For taking a big chance on a dodgy bloke like me!"

Vittore gave him the nod of a true gentlemen. Sean walked up to the bar and shouted happily at the bartender, "Another round for my mates!"

"Easy, Sean." Vittore laid a cautioning hand on his shoulder, "You'll need a clear head tomorrow. Dierker flew in this morning from Berlin."

Sean felt a dark cloud overshadow his boisterous mood. Kurt Dieker was a former German wheelman with a reputation for brutal moves on the track. To Sean's knowledge, the kraut had never lost a race. He was a Nazi poster boy. Another shining example of the Aryan Ideal.

"Kurt Dierker?" Sean asked, his smile had long since faded, "I thought he was retired…"

"He-" Vittore began, a sudden silence dropped on the bar, making all four comrades look towards the door. As if pushing an invisible wall before him, A tall, blonde, blue-eyed man with a jutting chin and chiseled features walked slowly through the crowd. He should have been handsome. And he was, in theory. However his blue eyes bespoke something feral, and the chiseled features made him look less human. He had already dressed in his racing uniform: brown and gray with a yellow strip down one side of his chest. Upon his back was the symbol of Team Dopplesieg, also the trademarked symbol of the Dopplesieg motorworks factory, which lay in the forests just north of Saarbrucken. Sean had heard strange tales about the place. He wasn't sure how many of them were true. The symbol itself consisted of a 'V' made of two lightning bolts, with the Iron Cross in the middle. The entire thing was encircled by a shield.

The Kraut marched toward the bar, his hands behind his back in a sinister pose. He greeted the Italian first, ignoring the other three. Sean turned to the bar, appearing unconcerned, but listening closely. The German pit crew began to spread through the crowd, surrounding the small group, though two of the bastards stayed at Dierker's shoulders. Sean exchanged a worried look with Jules. He could tell his friend was preparing for a brawl.

"Guten Abend, Herr Morini," the Aryan wheelman greeted, leaning over Vittore. He was disappointed to find that the Italian was not in the least bit intimidated by the tactic. He relented, "It is always a pleasure to welcome one of our Italian friends to the Fatherland. I was sjut speaking of my admiration for General Mussolini." He signaled to the bartender, who hurried to provide him with a mug of his own. Once acquired, Dierker took a sip, "A kindred spirit to our own Fuhrer, perhaps? Your country is fortunate to have such a leader, ja?"

Vittore had elected to face away from the bar, so he didn't have to look at the Nazi posterchild. He responded in a bored voice, "Racing is my passion. I have little time for politics."

Dierker examined one of the larger trophies behind the bar, "Sometimes racing _is _politics."

"No. There is a difference." Vittore said. Immediately, the two pit crew members, whom Sean was trying not to think of as bodyguards, straightened up and crossed their arms, glaring at the old Italian.

Dierker shifted position so that he was standing directly in front of Vittore. He smiled at the thugs and turned back to meet the man's eye, "Forgive my ignorance, Herr Morini." He said in a tone of false respect which made Sean's blood boil, "We Germans are a simple people. Perhaps you would enlighten us further?"

Sean had had enough. Facing the bar, he said, "One is a hobby for rich assholes who can't get laid without a flashy car and a silly uniform…" he turned and glared at Dierker, "The other is racing."

Dierker suppressed a laugh. Once again he turned to the thugs behind him as if they were good friends. Neither of them had cracked a smile, but had both shifted their gazes to Sean.

"This must be that British mechanic who thinks he's a driver."

"I'm Fucking Irish!" Sean snarled, leaning in closer.

Veronique made the mistake of trying to intervene. Finally acting civilized towards him, she grabbed Sean's arm and pulled saying: "It's getting late. Why don't we call it a night?"

Dierker pulled her away, grabbing her wrist, "The night is young, Fraulein. Stay. Dine with me."

Veronique expanded like a balloon. Behind him, Sean heard Jules slam his mug down on the table. The girl shot Dierker a deadly stare, "I have no taste for German cuisine."

"Not yet, perhaps." Dierker smiled a chilling smile, "But soon the women of your country will learn to savor the taste of a purebred German Bratwurst."

Sean had watched as Jules marched around to Dierker's other side, his fists clenched. The moment Dierker had finished, Jules grabbed his shoulder and whipped him around, yelling "Bastard!" the Frenchman's punch sent Dierker sprawling over the bar. The thugs sprang into action, as did Sean. He kicked the nearest in the stomach as Vittore pulled Veronique to safety. Sean and Jules stood back to back as the pit crew surrounded them.

"Boss!" Jules called, "Get my crazy sister out of here before she gets herself killed!"

One of the thugs sprang at Sean, who grabbed the man's scruffy uniform and pounded his face in. Before he and Jules were buried in German brawlers, Sean heard Veronique shout "I'm not going anywhere!"

"Enough!" Vittore responded, "I'm taking her upstairs."

Sean grabbed the smallest of the Pit crew and lifted him, throwing him bodily at one of his teammates, knocking them both into a table, which collapsed. Jules picked up a chair and cracked it over another's back. The man collapsed and didn't get up. Another thug tried to punch Sean but the Irishman blocked the blow and responded with a few of his own. He battered the man backwards and ended him with a knee to the face, sending him backwards into the crowd. Getting high on the bloodlust, he smashed his forehead into another's nose, and threw his elbow backwards. It connected with someone's neck, producing satisfying gurgling noises. Two more of the thugs rushed Sean, grabbing him and pushing him over the bar. He landed flat on his stomach, his face an inch from Dierker's. The kraut bastard was _hiding_!

Sean reacted first and struck like a Cobra, smashing the German's already bruised nose. He got to his feet, picking up a bottle as he went. One of the Dopplesieg crew tried to keep him down, but the burly Irishman smashed the bottle over the man's head. He took the opportunity to plant his shoe in Dierker's face, knocking the German right out.

Jules in the meantime had been cornered by three of the bastards, who were laying a right beating on him. Bellowing an unintelligible curse word, Sean rushed at the clump and bowled them all into the wall. He stood up, kicking any man who tried to rise, crying "Stay the fuck down!"

Jules laughed and dusted himself off, bruises already forming on his face, "I don't think he can hear you." The Frenchman laughed.

They heard Vittore warning them from the upper level, "Sean! The barman is talking to the police! I'll take care of Veronique! You boys, get out of here!"

"Jules, time to get scarce!" Sean shouted, heading for the door with the Frenchman at his heels.

The moment they exited the bar, Sean heard German orders being shouted through a megaphone. "Halt! Kommen Sie!"

Black Gestapo cars had blocked off the major lanes of traffic. Grim men in black suits with large guns were standing behind them, daring the two fugitives to make a move.

"Bollocks!" Sean muttered, hearing whistles going off. He heard the squeal of tires and turned to see the front end of a sports car slam to a halt less than a foot away. He sprang back reflexively, swearing at the driver, until he saw her face. "Watch it ya bloody-" he stared at the long flowing blonde hair, the piercing blue eyes, and the full, pouting lips. The woman shot him a smile which made his heart ache and his pants tight. He knew that smile. That face… A flurry of happy, blissful memories flowed through his mind.

"Fuck me…" he exclaimed, suddenly ignoring the surrounding Gestapo, "Skylar?"

Skylar Sinclair revved her engine and the smiled turned to a sultry, steamy look, "Mmmm," she moaned slightly, and spoke in a cold British drawl which only made things worse, "Are you chatting me up?"

Feeling shocked, he stumbled over to her door. She raised a slender, alabaster hand, "Hallo Sean. Hi Jules."

"Merde!" the Frenchman muttered, scanning the Gestapo gunman.

The Frenchman's comment brought Sean back. He slid into the driver's seat, pushing her to the side. She didn't seem to mind the contact at all.

"We'll catch up later." The Irishman said, "right now, we need to borrow yer car."

Jules slid in the other side, leaving the sultry blonde sandwiched in the middle. She turned to Sean and leaned in. He felt himself sinking back into the memories as her scent rolled over him.

"Well," she said quietly, "so much for awkward small talk…"

"Drive the fucking car!" Jules ordered hysterically.

"Hold onto yer arses!" Sean shouted. The British woman's valentine red car leapt forward, towards the Gestapo blockade. Judging by the way the men leapt to safety instead of shooting, it was obviously the last move they expected. Sean felt the two passengers tense up as the grill of Skylar's sports car rammed through the crack between two cars, pushing them to the sides and knocking off both the side mirrors. Deep scratches carved their way across the doors of the car.

"Just like old times, eh Skylar?" Sean asked as the red vehicle broke through the blockade and zoomed down the open street at high speed.

"Never a dull moment!" she replied, gripping her seat tightly, "How long have you been in town?"

As they crossed under a stone archway, Sean heard the sounds of engines behind him; the Gestapo were in pursuit. The Irishman instinctively headed towards the largest section of open road he could see: the racetrack. Bullets whined overhead, making all three of them duck, "Just got in, actually." Sean grunted, spinning the wheel, forcing the car into a tight turn around some concrete barriers and onto the racetrack. He heard a crash as one of the Gestapo cars failed to make the turn. The others were forced to slow and drive around it.

"Well…" Skylar took a deep breath, "I see you've wasted no time in running afoul of the local police."

"What?" Sean grinned, his eyes following the track. To either side, the red and white boundary lines whipped by at blinding speed. "Those fellas behind us? They're just having a laugh."

"Is this desperado routine meant to be a turn-on?" she asked as the vehicle was jostled by a pursuing black Gestapo car which had somehow managed to keep pace with them. Sean hit the brakes and pulled over slightly, allowing the black car to pass. He sped up and rammed them, knocking off the back bumper.

"I dunno." he replied, as her tires sent the piece of metal bouncing down the road at high speed, "Is it working?"

"Will you watch the fucking road, please?" Jules demanded. The poor Frenchman was white-faced, gripping his seat in terror, and Sean suddenly remembered why his friend had never wanted to be a driver.

"They'll radio ahead to set up roadblocks." Skylar told him, "Double back and you should be able to slip through the net!"

"They teach you that in your posh English school?" the Irishman asked.

"Benefits of a higher education." She replied, dodging the question airily.

Sean floored the gas pedal, until both cars were side by side. He spun the wheel left, forcing the car off the road. It slid uncontrollably down a steep slope, across a thick grassy field, through a fence, and into the side of a farmhouse. Sean hit the brakes, pulled off the road, and hid the car in a copse of trees, waiting for the other black cars to pass.

"Are all English girls as crazy as you are?" Jules demanded angrily.

"Give us some privacy, would you, Jules?" Sean replied.

"Oh, I'd love to, just as soon as you shake these fucking Krauts."

"Wait for it." Sean replied coolly.

They heard the noise as the black cars whipped past. Sean quietly pulled the car out and headed back the way they had come. He used the backroads and some cross-country driving to make his way back to the hotel, eventually parking the car behind it.

He allowed himself a relieved breath, "Well… that was fun. Anyone fancy a nightcap?"

"Brilliant!" Skylar let out a breath of her own. Sean's eyes travelled down her neck and rest on the low cut of her shirt, "I'm parched."

Jules made a tired noise and opened his door, "Fuck this. I'm not going to be the Third Wheel. Keep the noise down, eh? I need some fucking rest." He slammed it behind him and walked around the side of the building. Neither of the other two paid him any attention, being entirely focused on each other.

"C'mon up." Sean offered, "I'll sneak you in the back door."

She smiled, "Wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

Sean stared at the woman's perfect figure silhouetted in the window. She sighed, staring out across the now quiet town of Saarbrucken. "Nothing like a brisk evening drive to quicken the blood." She turned, her long fingers wrapped around a small mickey, "Except, perhaps, a single malt MacErin aged thirty years?"

Sean watched her carefully from his seat on the bed, imagining what else she was more than welcome to wrap her hands around. She moved forward slowly, one foot in front of the other, showing off the curve of her hips. She reached him, using her own thigh to part his legs. She handed him the small bottle.

"Must be Christmas." Sean grinned, "Lucky fer Jules and me you came sliding down the chimney when you did."

"Christmas is it?" She asked, settling on his knee. She pouted, "I'm afraid I've been a _bad_ girl…" She leaned back and settled comfortably on the bed, her mile-long legs across Sean's knees. He reached down and began to run his hands up and down them, admiring them. She truly possessed the figure of a goddess. "Aye," he said, "I'm certain of it."

"Whatever happened after that weekend in Monaco?" she asked, unzipping her jacket and allowing her ample chest some room to breathe. It made Sean's breath catch in his throat, "You never rang me up…"

"You never gave me your number." He replied.

She clicked her tongue in disapproval, "That's hardly an excuse." She sat up, wrapping her arm around his neck and leaning in for a kiss, "You're not still pining for Jules' little sister, are you? She's a bit of a bore, don't you think?"

"I don't think I'm her type." Sean told her, "So… are you in town for the race?"

"What can I say?" she asked, gently removing his flat cap, "I have a weakness for men in fast cars. I've been all over Europe, following the circuit. Mum and dad are mortified, of course." She leaned back, once again settling on the pillow. Sean resumed his examination of her legs.

"Beats working for a living." The Irishman japed, gently removing her long boots. A worrying item dropped into his lap.

"I wouldn't know…" she said.

Sean lifted up the switchblade and flicked it open, watching her carefully. _That _was a new addition. "What's this for? Shaving your legs?"

She smiled, gently pulling the knife from his hands, "A girl should always carry protection."

Her other arm travelled up to his shoulder and she pulled him in, kissing him with warm, soft, full lips. As a last act, she threw the knife away and it embedded itself in the middle of a Saarbrucken Grand Prix poster.

She gently broke the kiss to lift his shirt off, her fingers exploring his muscled chest, and the myriad of scars which criss-crossed it. "Someday," she said, rolling them over so that she was on top, "You'll have to tell me how you came by these scars."

Sean pulled her down for another kiss, feeling her hands fiddling with his belt buckle. He said, "We've done enough talking for one night…"


End file.
